Jeeves And The Psychologist
by LucylouKazoo
Summary: Mr. Wooster is lucky enough to visit with Jeeves' favorite psychological researcher. One never knows what will be uncovered in the course of a session with a good therapist!... Wodehouse Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I'm not making money off this, so please leave me alone, lawyers.

Chapter 1

I was engrossed in the task of ironing Mr. Wooster's freshly-washed pajamas, when I heard the door to the flat open and close, indicating his return from his gentlemens' club.

I was more than a little relieved, as I'd been looking out the window over the course of my day's labor, and I had ascertained that the clouds had become heavy and treacherous. Mr. Wooster had been looking especially trim and polished in his new cream colored suit, which would have been quite ruined by the rain, and I hated the thought of him caught in a deluge in the cool spring afternoon.

I set aside my task and went to meet him in the foyer. He looked pleased to see me, as he most often does, and handed me his hat and walking cane with a warm, pleasant smile.

"What ho, Jeeves!" he cried, hovering in the foyer as I placed his personal effects in the closet.

"Good afternoon, Sir. I trust your outing was pleasurable?"

"Quite, Jeeves! I've made a remarkable acquaintance just now, over at The Drones." He walked cheerfully to the couch and sat, as is his habit, in a languid, semi-recumbent sprawl that never fails to warm me slightly.

"Indeed, Sir?" I asked, mixing his brandy and soda.

"An academic of some sort. A... _psychologism_, or something along those lines. Studies the mechanisms of the mind, that sort of thing. Right along your alley, Jeeves!"

I handed him his drink, "I have often expressed my interest in the study of psychology. It is kind of you to recall, Sir."

"A strange sort of fellow, this one, though," he ruminated, swirling his beverage, "almost puts me in mind of a rather more severe Father Christmas!" He indicated a lengthy beard, with his free hand, "Do all psychologolistics look that way, Jeeves?"

"I am informed that a number of professional academics, focused as they are on their studies, often allow their personal grooming habits to lapse, Sir."

"Well! He was a dashed fascinating fellow, nonetheless. Says he's doing a study of some sort, and has offered psychoanalysee, free of charge, to each of the members of the Drones!"

"Indeed, Sir? That _is_ generous" I began to sort the day's mail.

"I think I'll take this doctor chap up on his offer. Never let it be said that B. Wooster isn't willing to take a gander around the hollowy space between his ears!"

I paused in my sorting, intrigued. "I am glad to hear you're taking an interest in the doctor's scientific expertise, Sir. I am led to believe that psychoanalysis from a trained professional can be very revealing, and often enjoyable."

"Enjoyable, Jeeves? Well marvelous! I was sort of curious, is all, and, well, he did ask very politely whether we might join in."

"Very good, Sir."

"Jeeves, would you call him up right away and set the appointment, please? I think I'll have a bit of a read," he tapped his finger against 'Crime Capers of Cape Crime,' and reached into his jacket pocket, proffering a small, embossed business card, "Here's the number of his office."

"Certainly, Sir," I said, taking the card as Mr. Wooster took up the mystery novel and settled further into the couch. I had picked up the telephone to phone the number on the card, when, in shock, the receiver slipped from my fingers and clattered to the floor.

I cleared my throat, "Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt your literary pursuits," I began, glancing over the card for a second and third time to be absolutely sure, "But am I to understand that the gentleman who is taking a study of your club, is none other than Dr. Havelock Ellis, the well-known psychologist and author?"

"I wasn't aware he was such a fat cat in the biz, Jeeves, but I suppose so. Seemed quite well-off and official-seeming. Is your Dr. Ellis a gent in his golden years, with a hint of an Aussie twang and a severe, calculating gaze?"

I was more than a little off-balance, but I kept my composure level. "He spent time, in his youth, in Australia, according to his writings. I would imagine that he is one and the same." I retrieved the phone from where it had landed on the carpet, and held it, poised in my slightly shaking hand.

"You seem a bit pipped, Jeeves, if you don't mind my saying so. Big fan of this fellow's work, are you?"

"Dr. Ellis has long been of great interest to me. I find his theories, perhaps excluding those he favors in the field of eugenics, to be extremely interesting and enlightened."

"Ah! Then you'll have to meet the chap, being such a fan of his. You can toddle along with me, and I'll introduce you before my appointment!"

"That is most kind of you, Sir," I said, for lack of anything else to add to the matter. Mr. Wooster returned to his reading, and I phoned in the appointment, scheduling his visit for the following afternoon.

I had, for the past few months, noticed a certain, developing warmth in Mr. Wooster's regard for me. At first I had thought I had been imagining it, as my employer had always been kind and slightly awe-struck by my proficient work. I was, at first, quite sure that I'd begun to imagine things, but his subtle alteration had continued. I had begun to suspect that Mr. Wooster was teetering on a signifigant realization in the matter of his feelings towards myself. This chance meeting with Dr. Havelock Ellis... Well, this would certainly bring to light any previously unacknowledged tendencies in my employer's psyche, especially concerning my suspicions. It was the chance I'd been hoping for, as I'd been unwilling to provoke his realization, myself, lest it be mistaken for coercion.

The rain had begun to fall by then, and Mr. Wooster chose to dine in, insisting I join him for the evening meal (a kind-hearted habit he has begun to favor with increasing frequency). We passed a quiet, pleasant night, and after a congenial nightcap, we each retired to our respective rooms.

Late that evening, I perused my bookshelf and selected one of the volumes to re-examine from the comfort of my bed.

The book was entitled "Studies in the Psychology of Sex, Vol. 2; Sexual Inversion," by Dr. Havelock Ellis.

Glancing through the pages, which were marked with the occasional slip of paper to recall a particularly salient point, I fondly regarded the worn pages, recalling how it had allowed me to claim a deeper peace of mind, in my youth.

I greatly anticipated my opportunity to meet Dr. Ellis in the course of the following day's events. Due to his publicized theories on the acceptable and natural presence of homosexuality within society, his life had been a constant struggle to share his studies with the world. His observations were, perhaps, too suggestive for current science, but I was glad to finally have the opportunity to pay him some much-deserved commendations.

Ellis often called forth in example the scientific study of animals, recording the frequent instances of homosexual behavior in birds and mammals. He had also, circumspectly, attempted to record the behaviors in the slightly less scientific arena of human sexuality, to set forth his theory that homosexuality was neither unnatural or amoral. I was especially touched by his interviews with men, similar to myself, who were forced to repress their sexual appetites, for fear of penal or social recrimination.

I had realized, years ago upon reading this book, that, though secretive, my peers were all around me. I was not alone in my silent yearning, and my hastily tamped desires.

Ellis argued for the decriminalization of sodomy, and the importance of recognizing the presence and harmlessness of sexual inversion in Britain.

Why, then, was he taking a study of the Drones members?

I was weighted with thoughts of Mr. Wooster's appointment. I'd long-ago reached the conclusion that while I would never again seek companionship from anyone other than my employer, it was unlikely that he would ever examine his feelings for me to an extent that would provoke his similar realization. I was content, for the most part, to be near him, and accept our chaste domesticity as the nearest thing to my fondest imaginings.

If I longed for him, I longed more to remain in his joyful presence. If I desired him, I desired, deeper, his contentedness.

I'd had times when I'd suspected that Mr. Wooster was not indifferent towards me, but eight years together had come to nothing more than the deepening of our friendship, and the comfortable intimacy between trusted employer and employee.

His meeting with Dr. Ellis, though... Ellis was a scientist who both understood and actively sought-out the sort of tendencies that I suspected lay dormant in Mr. Wooster...

I placed the book on my bedside table, nervous and slightly inflamed at the hope that Mr. Wooster might, just tomorrow, discover the secrets of his own heart.

Author's Note: Havelock Ellis was a real dude! Look him up.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I was in quite a fine mood this morning, as Jeeves had biffed round to the corner bakery to procure those scones I favor in my breakfast tray, and I was quite keen on this whole doctor visit. Most of the time, Jeeves has to cajole me into stepping one foot into the offices of those handsy fellows they call physicians--that is, when they're not making a house call-- but I felt this would be different.

At the very least, I suppose I shouldn't be expected to have to remove my trousers, like one so often has to do at the family physician's.

On top of that, I was going to be able to introduce Jeeves to a fellow he much adores, brainy cove to brainy cove, and I was fascinated to see the massive genius of my man moving in a counterpart to another fantastic reader of mind and man.

The day was crisp and well-washed from yesterday's rain, and I hummed a little while we walked. It was all very companionable, with Jeeves at my elbow, sending out little vibrations of poise and elegance, as he always does.

"Ah. This the spot, eh, Jeeves?" I said, when he took my elbow to steer me towards the office; a respectable-looking brownstone with a small placard out front reading "Ellis Pychotherapy."

"Yes, sir. I must thank you, again, for allowing the the opportunity for this introduction," said Jeeves, touching his hat in thanks, "I had never thought to meet such a highly respected psychologist."

"Not at all, Jeeves! Glad I could help you two to meet... though I daresay he couldn't be much more of an expert on the psychology of the individual than _you_ are! I fancy he'd likely see right through to the back of my skull! Not a tempting thought, Jeeves."

"Sir is too kind."

The waiting room was a small affair. A receptionist sat behind a desk, typing away busily.

"Hello there! B. Wooster here, to see Dr. Ellis!" I said, just as the interior door opened to admit the good doctor, himself.

"Ah, Mr. Wooster! Good to see you again," he said, with his faintly Australian accent. We shook hands warmly.

"What ho, Dr. Ellis! May I introduce you to my valet, Jeeves. Big fan of your work, apparently! Quite a coincidence, what?"

"Mr. Jeeves. A pleasure," said Ellis, shaking Jeeves' hand.

"Dr. Ellis, I am honored. I have followed your work for some time now. Your studies are of great interest to me."

"Ah! A psychotherapy enthusiast! I'm so pleased to hear it," replied the doctor, raising his eyebrows.

"Indeed. I'm very happy to hear that you will be working with Mr. Wooster. I do hope he can assist in your study. I have no doubt that you will discern, in little time, that he is a gentleman of great substance, perhaps even more than humility permits him to realize, insofar as the extent of his personal worth." Jeeves spoke in that low, mellifluous voice he so often uses when he is masterfully arranging the spheres into alignment, and it made me a little curious.

I blushed and stammered a bit at his compliments. Jeeves wields his accolades with a razor edge, and it never fails to touch and fluster the Wooster heart.

"I am quite sure of it," replied the doctor, with that same slight softness in his voice, as he peered at Jeeves a little closer. " Have you studied psychology very long, Mr. Jeeves?" he then asked, a little amused.

"Simply a hobby of mine, Doctor Ellis," said Jeeves, replacing his hat with a slightly smiling nod, and turning towards me. "I hope your discussions with the Doctor will be enlightening, Sir," he said, cocking his head in that way of his. "I shall be running some errands in the meantime. Thank you, again, for bringing me along."

"Not at all, Jeeves! My pleasure, my pleasure!"

With that, he touched his hat, nodded to the doctor and the receptionist, and made his way out the door.

"Well, Mr. Wooster," said Dr. Ellis, clapping me on the shoulder soundly, "Shall we begin? Please, come in and take a seat."

Author's Note: Awww.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

At twenty past one in the morning, the phone finally rang.

I picked it up hastily, expecting the voice of the gruff constable I'd spoken to over an hour ago, when I'd telephoned to report my employer's absence.

At the time, I had thought it quite rude and unkind of him to have laughed off my concern over someone who had been missing for only twelve hours. Now I was certain he was returning my call to report that Mr. Wooster had been located in the drunk tank, or perhaps the hospital.

When Mr. Wooster had failed to return to the flat after his appointment, I had assumed he had headed to his club for the afternoon. When he had failed to turn up by the dinner hour, I had begun to worry. It was extremely unlike my employer to neglect to inform me of his dinner plans. At midnight, I had telephoned the police. I suppose it might have been slightly hysterical, but I'd been on edge since leaving Mr. Wooster with Dr. Ellis.

I picked up the phone with a trembling hand. It took a moment to place the familiar caller. The voice was not that of the constable, but Mr. Palmieri, the bartender who operated the zinctop at the Gangway Pub. Palmieri and I had worked the same catering service, early in our careers, and though he had taken employment behind bar, and I had chosen valeting, we still spoke from time to time.

"Jeeves, there's a lad here askin' after yeh. Well... not so much askin' as 'e is yellin. I thought 'how many Reginald Jeeves's kin there be in London?' and so I thought I'd ring you up, jus' in case."

"Can you describe the young man?"

"Certainly. He's a bit of a swell for this spot. Brown suit, sort of sandy flop'a hair... hol' on a moment," He was speaking to someone out of telephone range, but, over the clinking noise of the pub, I could just make out his muffled request to 'lift up yer head, mate.'

"There we are. Blue eyes, an' e' looks like someone's gone an' slapped him straight in the face with a damp towel."

I took a little offense that Mr. Wooster's endearing, flabbergasted look could be thus described, but there was no question of the identity of the individual he was describing.

"Is the gentlemen quite all right?" I asked, fingering the cord of the telephone.

"Oh, he's jus' fine at the moment, but I wouldn't want to be him in the mornin!" said Palmieri.

"He's... inebriated?"

"He passed 'inebriated' about two hours ago. Any chance you might be able to come by an' fetch him? We're closing up shop here, and he's refusin' to leave." I could sense Palmieri's frustration.

"I'll leave for the pub now. Thank you for calling, Mr. Palmieri."

"Not atall, Jeeves. Yor helpin' me more than I'm helpin' you, I'd wager," and I replaced the receiver, donning my jacket and hurrying out of the flat in at a swift pace.

The Gangway Pub was a respectable, working-class meeting spot. Not usually Mr. Wooster's fare, and so I was surprised to learn that he'd chosen it as his destination, rather than taking to the Drones. It was certainly not a place where he'd run into any of his friends.

He was slumped at the bar, his thin frame huddled over the countertop and his head pillowed in his arms. His golden hair was ruffled, and he kicked his feet at the stool like a small boy. I couldn't repress my relief at finding him unharmed, and the slight thrill I always receive when I am about to come to his aid.

I nodded to Palmieri, who returned my nod from behind the bar, where he was cleaning a stein with a rag. Clearing my throat softly, I waited at my employer's elbow for him to notice my presence.

"Jeeeeeeves..." he moaned miserably into his arms, and I was surprised that he had been aware of me without lifting his head from his arms.

"Sir?" I inquired, and he startled violently at my voice, jerking his head up and knocking himself off balance. In his surprised and inebriated state, this flung him off the stool and back, bodily, into me, where I caught him around the chest, closely preventing his tumbling to the pub floor.

"Jeeves!" he cried, utterly shocked to see me. "How-- How did you find me?" He looked up, terrified, into my face, and I noticed that he was having trouble focusing his eyes. It was clear that my employer was more drunk than I have ever borne witness to, and I felt my face betray my concern.

"Sir, perhaps it is time to return home for the evening," I said cajolingly, noting the few other patrons sending dark looks our way. It was clear from those looks that Mr. Wooster had been acting belligerently for some time. I did my best to steady him on his feet, where he swayed dangerously, and he looked at the floor, seeming to sulk.

"S'pose so, Jeeves," he said. "WellI'm off then," and he spun drunkenly towards the door.

I carefully peeled him up from where he sprawled, having tripped over a bar stool. I took his arm across my shoulder, and hefted his slight frame to his feet. We made our way slowly and silently out of the pub, and began the short walk back towards Mr. Wooster's home.

After a few minutes in the cool night air, Mr. Wooster seemed a little more himself, and his steps were slightly firmer. Still, it unnerved me that he failed to meet my eyes, nor to say a word. I peered at him in the light from a streetlamp, and I noticed that, beneath the ruddiness of his inebriation, he was blushing deeply.

My mind leapt at a possibility I had only dared to entertain, and I was suddenly a little breathless. I calmed my features, though, and resolutely forged on, supporting half of Mr. Wooster's weight as we went.

"Jeeves," he suddenly said, looking at the ground bashfully as we walked, "Thank you for finding me."

"Not at all, Sir. I was concerned for your safety. The bartender was kind enough to call me and tell me your--"

"No, Jeeves, that's not what I mean," he slurred.

I was confused. I waited for him to continue.

"I mean, well... I'd be lost without you, Jeeves. If you hadn't turned up on my doorstep... You're... You're the only thing that makes my life good, and... and..." He broke off, and I was surprised to notice that he was tearing up.

We had stopped when he had begun to speak, as he was unable to concentrate on words and walking both at once. He leaned against a nearby tree, bringing his the back of his head to thump against the trunk soundly. He squeezed his eyes shut, and I spent a moment, unable to resist, taking in the curve of his white neck, his rumpled, disarrayed clothing, and the sweetness of his scent.

"It is my pleasure to serve you, Sir," I carefully replied, "but, if I may say so, you seem to very much enjoy _many_ aspects of your life. You have a great deal of things that are 'good;' your numerous friends, your--" but he interrupted me again.

"Sod it, Jeeves. When I say you're what makes it good, you're what bally makes it good! ...It would all be horrid if... if..." he could not continue, and covered his face with his elegant hands. I took his arm over my shoulders to begin walking again. We made our way slowly through the park, and as we passed by a grove of holly bushes, he cleared his throat and spoke again.

"If you left me, Jeeves... I couldn't stand it if you left me."

"I have no intentions to leave your service, Sir. Allow me to reassure you that such a course of action is the last thing I would hope for." At this, Mr. Wooster gave an uncharacteristically incredulous "Ha!" and resumed sulking.

We were silent as we made our way up the last block and into the building. We rode the lift, Mr. Wooster giving off an air of dejected drunkenness, and finally made it back to the apartment.

I deposited him on the turned-down bed, where he sprawled on his back with his forearm over his eyes. I took the opportunity to remove his shoes and socks.

"Jeeeeeeeves," he mumbled, "What a mess..."

I sighed. He was in no condition to properly undress himself for bed, and the thought of the state of his clothing the following morning... I sighed, and began undoing his tie.

While it is quite common for a valet to assist in attiring his gentleman, it's not particularly common to attend upon the act of disrobing, past the shoes, ties and suspenders. A good valet generally excuses himself, at this point, to run the bath or prepare a nightcap. He then returns, to find the gentleman ensconced in the pajamas that had been laid out, to tend to the discarded clothing, and turn back the bedclothes.

The unfamiliar and intimate act of undressing a docile and drunken Mr. Wooster was certainly bound to be a trial of patience and restraint, especially after the anxiousness of the day.

I grasped his hands to pull him into a sitting position on the bed, and he sat dully while I removed his jacket and tie, and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling the tails and availing him of the garment.

I noted that he'd begun to watch my face with large, doleful eyes. I was pleased to note that he'd managed to focus them at last, but his gaze was a little unnerving. It was clear that Mr. Wooster was still quite drunk, and, as tempting a picture as he presented-- flushed and biting his lip while docilely allowing me to disrobe him-- I steeled myself to avoid any improprietous behavior. Mr. Wooster may or may not have come to one or two conclusions about himself over the course of the afternoon, but that did not allow me to take advantage of him in his drunken state. When he came to me, I wanted it to be with a clear head and a ready heart, fully prepared to unburden himself. When, or if, that occurred, I would be _quite_ pleased to reciprocate.

When I finished removing his shirt, he didn't move, so I pushed him lightly back to lie on the bed. I had to bite the inside of my lip to prevent myself from reveling in the feel of his stomach against the back of my hands as I undid his trouser fastenings. He assisted me by raising his pelvis in order for me to slide his pants down over his hips, and I hastily quelled a surge of lust.

He lay in his undershorts, seemingly asleep, with his feet dangling off the bed. I covered him with the blanket (removing the temptation from sight), and saw to the tidiness of the room. I paused before extinguishing the light, bending to peer at my employer's face while he slept. His eyelashes were damply pointed, reflecting golden in the light of the lamp, and his lips were parted sweetly. I took a deep breath to ease the clenching in my chest, and wondered, for the thousandth time, at how to best bear my regard for him. As I was lingering, he sighed softly, and opened his eyes to slits, regarding me. His hand wormed his way out from beneath the covers, and grasped mine, where it hung at my side. His fingers were warm and soft, and I couldn't help but curl my own around his.

He smiled, closing his eyes again, and mumbled something unintelligible. I leaned closer, "I'm sorry, what did you say, Sir?"

"Had a bit of a shock, Jeeves," he enunciated.

"Oh? I trust that everything went well at the doctor's?" I allowed myself to revel fondly in the touch of his hand, which still gripped my own, certain he would not recall this moment, or the majority of the evening's events, come the morning.

Mr. Wooster opened his eyes to regard me solemnly (as best he could), "He's quite keen, that Dr. Ellis. Eerie... the way he... knows... things..." and, his voice trailing off, I watched the blue of his eyes slip closed as he fell into the comfort of sleep.

Author's Note: What did the doctor reveal? Find out in our next installment! Same bat time.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Mr. Wooster, while accustomed to the effects of an evening at the cups, often subsequently passes restless nights due to the dehydrating effects of alcohol. I've frequently heard his light-footed tread in the small hours, when he wakes to retrieve a glass of water. On this night, though, I was caught in a deeper sleep than is customary, having before dealt with the anxiety and upset of the evening's events.

In fact, I was occupied in a dream, and hadn't the attention to have heard Mr. Wooster's footsteps.

In my dream, I was lying against the warm sand on the beach in the south of France, familiar from a fishing holiday in my youth. At the time, I had passed the weekend in solitude, alternating between fishing in the waist-deep water, and sleeping on the sun-bleached sand.

In my dream, I was not alone.

Mr. Wooster stood just off the shore, where the water lapped gently against his knees. He wore a towel wrapped around his waist, as he often does after his bath, and stood with his fists at his hips, surveying the beach before him.

I watched him, admiring his trim figure, as he lifted his hand with a smile, waving at me on the shore. I returned his greeting in the easy manner one seems to adopt in one's dreams.

In a moment, though, his proximity shifted, and I felt the firm weight of him atop me, pinning me to the sand at my hips. His elegant hands gripped my shoulders, and the blessed warm weight of him along my pelvis felt real enough to revel in. The scent of him, soap and cedar and wool, filled my senses. My hands against his warm, lightly-furred thighs, creeping upward under the towel, and his mouth moving against my neck...

...and somewhere in my subconscious, I realized that while I had frequently dreamed of Mr. Wooster in this manner (provoking near-blushes at his bedside in the following morning), it had never before had the perfect tactile accuracy of this moment.

I opened my eyes with a gasp.

And oh, the solid mass of him, here in the place I had so often conjured his shape...

I breathed in slowly, taking in his hips against my own, his knees on either side of my waist, and the blurred outline of his golden hair against my cheek in the darkness of my room. I was aware that I could feel waves of heat coming off of his skin, and that this was no dream, despite the resemblance to many I've had over the past years.

I was instantly at full arousal, lightheaded with the effect of his closeness.

He wore only his shorts, and as he hummed against my neck, I felt slightly dizzy; drunk on the reality of his presence.

Drunk.

I froze, and sank, suddenly, into despair. He was still drunk. My hands curled, frustrated, in fists against his knees, and I struggled not to touch him again. I could not allow for a liaison with Mr. Wooster while he was in such a state.

"Ohhh.." he murmured against my neck, and I stifled the urge to thrust up against him. My toes curled with the repressed compulsion.

"Sirrr," I attempted to say, though I hated how the honorarium had fallen from my lips as a low purr of pleasure. I cleared my throat and tried again.

"Sssir... May I... help you back to your bedroom?" the words were bitten out through clenched teeth, as he had begun to subtly undulate against me. I suspected that, were I to follow my conscience and rebuff Mr. Wooster's drunken advances, it would certainly lead to a great deal of frustration. But it had to be done, I conceded to myself, and raised my hands to attempt to still the motion of his hips.

Oh, his hipbones were sharp and muscular, and my thumbs fit perfectly in the hollows.

"What? Don't be silly, Jeeves. Here will do fine." His voice against my neck was nearly as distracting as what his hips had been doing a moment before.

"Certainly you must be tired, Sir," I attempted. I couldn't seem to remove my hands from the warmth of Mr. Wooster's hips. His skin felt so warm under my fingertips, alive and humming like electric current. "I'd imagine you'd be eager to return to your bed to sleep..." I choked out my words and squeezed my eyes shut in an attempt to block out the overwhelmingly pleasurable reality of his presence in _my_ bed, at last.

"Jeeves?" he stilled-- finally, a relief and a unendurable absence--- then suddenly sat up over me, his hands steadying themselves against my stomach. He was now fully seated over my hips, and the pressure was exquisite. I couldn't quite stifle a gasp, and I felt my traitorous eyes roll up with pleasure, for a moment, before I gained control over my responses. "Are you telling me... that my being here is unwelcome?" he said, looking concerned, and I felt something constrict in my chest.

"Sir..." I attempted, swallowing, "Perhaps if you should fully consider your present course of action, and allow that the influence of inebriation has carried some bearing over your--"

His horrified gasp had cut me off. "Dash it all..." He muttered in open-mouthed astonishment, "...You're serious!..."

"In your current circumstance, Sir, I would discourage any actions that you may find... uncomfortable, while in a state of sobriety."

"I... I'm sorry, Jeeves. I... I'll just..." He had gone pale with horrified embarrassment, and stumbled from my bed. I instantly missed the heat and weight of him.

He was upset. It was clear from his failure to meet my eyes, and his hasty departure.

"Sir?" I called, but he had already stumbled into the hallway. There was no response.

I took a breath to compose myself, then rose to surreptitiously follow his weaving progress down the hallway. I watched as he groped his way into his bedroom, and flung himself onto his bed, so that his smooth back rippled against his duvet. I was moved by the boyish manner in which he wiped his eye with the back of his wrist, and removed myself from the doorway before I could reconsider my actions and return him, drunk, to my bed.

I gave an involuntary sigh, and shook my head, leaning against the wall in the hallway. Part of what made me so fond of Mr. Wooster, was his ability to seek out and follow the most disastrous course of action, despite my best efforts to orchestrate a convenient series of events. In some ways, he was an utter mess, and in others, a man grown who had yet to succumb to the drudgery or capability of adulthood. It was so like him to have serendipitously come upon a realization as to his sentiments, only to drink himself into a state of near-incoherence, and then attempt a drunken seduction. At times, I wondered how well he knew me at all.

Of course, he knows me far better than any living soul on earth. The young gentleman just hasn't the slightest idea as how to behave in unfamiliar situations.

I thought again of the beautiful contours of his back- his parted lips and tousled hair, and felt my eyes fall shut with frustration at having to deny myself after wanting him for so long.

Sleep did not come in the next few hours, and when I rose early to mix Mr. Wooster's morning restorative, I mixed a second glass to bring myself to wakefulness. Shaking off the resultant shudders, I steeled myself, and grasping the tray, faced Mr. Wooster in the morning light.

Author's Note: I always wake up in the middle of the night whenever I drink. Does anyone else? Bertie, apparently.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

There aught to be a law against waking up.

I can usually tolerate the morning stretch and rise, providing I am able to sleep until an acceptable hour, and that Jeeves should thence rise like the sun, with tray at the ready.

Some mornings, though, it seems a bit like pedaling a bicycle through the mud, just to open one's leaden eyelids.

Dragging the lead-ones up with a groan, I surveyed the blurred interior of my bedroom, and groped towards the blessedly familiar glass of Jeeves' mysterious miracle cocktail. After my first swig of the mixture, the room began to unblur, and I shook my head, rueful and grinning, at the silliness of this B. Wooster. I glanced up to share the joke with Jeeves, but my sheepish look was met with an eerily nonplussed expression. A morning salutation died on my lips.

Now, Jeeves is a master of the nonplussed expression, but I'm quite able to spot when he is well and truly nonplussed, which is far from when he's simply simmering below the surface. On most occasions, Jeeves is genial and slightly amused by my morning penitence after a night in my cups. From his stony eyes, I'd have a bit of work to do before he'd unfreeze.

He turned to place the tray on the side-table, and I peered at him from over the rim of my glass. I breathed in a long sigh, sweeping my eyes over his broad back and tapered waist, remembering how warm his skin had felt last night, and I wriggled just a little.

"If you will excuse me, Sir, I shall go to prepare your breakfast," he said, still like granite.

"Of course, Jeeves, thank you."

He slipped from the room and left me to my ruminations.

Now, a Wooster is never one to dally over a gentlemanly acceptance of change. In days gone by, it was after an evening or so of contemplation and confusion that I would acquiesce to the will of Aunt or fiancee alike. It's part of why I'm so grateful that Jeeves is here to protect me, else I'd likely be miserably and manfully soldiering on in some dratted marriage, making the best of a horrid situation.

My mother always said, "Bertie, it's important to meet a challenge, examine it, and then face it with a open heart and a stiff upper-lip."

At the time, she'd been attempting to boost my moral over having been caught out in the headmaster's study, pilfering his good sunday sock-garters, on a dare. Threatened with expulsion, I'd been shaking in my Eton tie, when mother had swept in to rescue me from peril, smoothing the headmaster's ruffled feathers, and bucking me up no small amount.

I'd been served up with a month of detention, and enough demerits to humble any boy, but I'd been spared an expulsion. After a day of considering my punishment, I'd decided I'd been the luckiest young chap to ever pinch a garter.

Yesterday, Dr. Ellis had been quite keen on this Wooster optimism. He'd pronounced that it was "enlightened" to take a harsh word or surprising news with such a positive outlook. I suppose that had been why he'd been so quick to deliver his bit of news that quite knocked me for a loop.

All in all, it had been quite a conversation.

When you took it all in pieces, the way he had done after I'd talked his ear off for over an hour, it's easy to see that the bits of information all fit nicely together. Astonishing, the way the good doctor had parceled out the evidence of my own words! At the end of the appointment, I was reeling.

"Are you aware, Mr. Wooster, that you have mentioned Mr. Jeeves over two dozen times over the course of our session?" Dr. Ellis tapped his notebook with a pencil.

"Did I? Well! Quite a tally, that! I suppose, barring the chorus of barking aunts, Jeeves is the closest I have to family."

"Hm. You know, many young men who have lost their family find it comforting to take a wife, and create a familial environment in matrimonial union."

"Never been much for all that, Ellis. I mean to say, all's well and sound in the Wooster household, as is. Of course, one occasionally spends a moment or two in a lonely sort of mood, but that tends to pass come morning, what?"

"Do you speculate on whether Mr. Jeeves has similarly lonely nights? After all, he shares a similar living situation to your own."

I frowned at the ceiling in contemplation. "I'd imagine so, Doctor, though I daresay Jeeves often seems beyond succumbing to the harsher bits of human emotion." A memory surfaced from the depths, "I recall, once, discussing with him how Jeeves had chosen his occupation. I had been idly contemplating a professional life, in an attempt to shed the title of 'wastrel,' when I'd asked him about his own career. He'd replied that it was his great pleasure in life to provide service and companionship to a deserving gentleman. 'Helps you sleep at night, does it?' I'd asked, and he'd replied, 'Indeed, it does, Sir.'"

"But surely you and Mr. Jeeves aren't so different. You're both men, and as a man, myself, I am quite sure that every man, from time to time, feels the sting of loneliness, and the ache of love."

I contemplated this for a moment, trying to picture Jeeves in the throes of _amour_, and felt my mind do a little sidestep from the concept.

"Jeeves is unlike normal men, though," I scoffed, shaking my head and fingering the arm of the 'talking couch.' I'd taken a liking to the leather recliner upon entering the room, and had been thrilled when I was allowed to simply prop up my feet in the thing, and flap my gums. From the curve of the couch, I found that, for once, I could babble to my heart's content, without the usual auntly order to desist.

"So you believe that Mr. Jeeves is abnormal? Perhaps he does not desire what is generally considered 'normal.' Mr. Jeeves has never been married, is this so?"

I nodded.

"And you have declared a positive aversion to the sorts of desires one might readily find in a 'normal' gentleman such as yourself?"

"Righto."

"Perhaps, Mr. Wooster, you do not desire the company of a wife because you find your present company to be adequate."

"But it isn't adequate! That is to say, it _shouldn't_ be!" I exclaimed, "Jeeves is a marvel, but surely a young gentleman, such as myself, should be experiencing the pangs of passion, from time to time. A girl hasn't stirred my fancy in years! Are you saying that Jeeves is to blame?"

"Not exactly," said the doctor, wiping his glasses with a handkerchief.

"Then we're both afflicted with this loveless malady, due to some inadvertent machinations on his part?"

"On the contrary-- I don't think either of you are, as you say, _loveless_, Mr. Wooster," said Dr. Ellis, replacing his glasses.

"But I just told you, we are! We're perfectly healthy, appreciably handsome... Why is it that neither of us should have the slightest desire to be married, when you say that many young men hold out a fervent hope to someday find a loving spouse?"

"Perhaps, Mr. Wooster, you feel you may have already found a suitable spouse."

I gaped. "But neither of us are girls!"

Ellis sighed a little, and I saw him rub the bridge of his nose in a familiar manner.

"Did you know that there is a considerable number of the population who find that barrier to be inconsequential? Surely you're aware, Mr. Wooster, that not every bee finds birds to be better suited over their own species."

"Well," I sputtered, now well and truly disquieted, "Of course I'm _aware_ of it, but it's hardly a considerable number... One in every family, or so I'm led to believe," I thought of my great uncle, Cedric, a classics professor who had been rumored to have taken one of his young pupils to Greece, to live in sin by the seashore, in a scandal that had ruffled the Wooster aunts when I was just a lad. If he was the one in _my_ family, then there couldn't possibly be _two_, or so I had thought to myself, many a time.

"I beg to differ," said Ellis, intruding on my ruminations, "In my studies, I have found that such a tendency is quite common, _and_ quite natural. Though societal restrictions presently force these gentlemen to conceal their affections, it is likely that you know a great many fellows that share this persuasion towards other fellows."

I seemed to have begun to have difficulty breathing.

"In fact," he continued, "in nearly every family, there are any number of gentlemen, such as yourself, who fall in love with men, often of a different class than their own. It's all very discreet, of course, but the unfortunately shortsighted legal system is to blame for that nonsense..." He stroked his beard and scowled into the distance, no doubt contemplating the shortcomings of British law, but it was at this point when I'd begun to see things a little oddly. My breathing had gone all funny, and in a moment, Doctor Ellis was peering over to examine my pale face. "Mr. Wooster! Are you quite alright? Do I need to phone an ambulance?"

After things had calmed down a little (I was still more than a little shaken up, mind you), Doctor Ellis had continued his observations.

"I'm sorry to be so blunt about all this, Mr. Wooster, but I assumed you knew, perhaps subconsciously, of your attachment to Mr. Jeeves. Having been in your acquaintance for a mere hour, it was _quite_ clear to me," he glanced at his watch, "I'm sorry to leave things on such a revelatory note, but I'm afraid I have to see to another appointment, shortly."

I nodded, but as I stood to leave, another question dawned, "And... Jeeves... is of a similar... nature?" I sputtered, swaying a little and clutching the glass of water that Doctor Ellis had hastily given me, when I'd been in danger of passing out.

"Well, I'm certainly not apprised of Mr. Jeeves' feelings on the matter. It's a delicate matter, Mr. Wooster, but it is your prerogative whether or not you wish to confront him over this."

"But what if he _isn't_ like me?" I whined.

"Even if he is, Mr. Wooster, the pitfalls of a homosexual relationship between members of differing classes is often an insurmountable obstacle. Tread lightly. Take time to review your feelings on this matter. Observe his behavior, and approach him, rationally, if you so choose."

"Righto," I murmured, shaking his hand.

And, naturally, proceeded to do just the opposite.

Which brings us back to this morning and Jeeves' decidedly rummy expression.

Lost in thought over my breakfast, I speared a potato and chewed it, while gazing at the window from my bed. I was recalling the doctor's unheeded advice from the day before. Jeeves poured my tea, then straightened to excuse himself. I watched him go with large eyes.

I recalled, to my chagrin, nearly every event that had occurred after I'd left the offices of Doctor Ellis.

I'd started with a bit of a think at a nearby park, and after an hour or so of deep contemplation, had decided that there was nothing too terrible about this new situation in which I found myself. I'd tell Jeeves all about it, and whether or not he was ready, I'd be patient and await his reciprocation.

The more I thought over the doctor's words, the more sense they seemed to make. I'd certainly had more than my fair share of subtle (or not so subtle) moments of keen admiration of my valet; now they all added up! And for years I'd fondly wished that Jeeves was a female, as he was the only person who'd ever managed to enthrall me so deeply for so long. It had never quite conked into the noodle; He didn't _need_ to be female! It all seemed to simple, now.

It was all wedding bell fancies (and quite a bit of wedding-_night_ fancies, I'll add) in the Wooster noggin, now that I had come to a conclusion about the whole business. To put a seal on the thing, I decided that, since I'd finally found my _grand amour_, I'd have a little bachelor party of my own, to observe my Grand Decision. Hopefully, it would also celebrate my last night as a single gent! I couldn't very well round up the lads to have a bit of a celebration over such a decidedly unconventional union, so I struck the Drone's Club from the list of venues.

I headed straight to the nearest dinghy pub.

But I hadn't counted on the uncertainty of Jeeves' own feelings casting a pall over the party.

I'd worked my way through a full bottle of scotch when a cloud of despair had quite taken the place of my jolly mood. Why should Jeeves ever be content with me? I downed another drink, feeling queasy, and laid my forehead down to rest against the bar.

No, it would be unfair to ask him to be mine. I wasn't even well-liked by my close relations! Perhaps Doctor Ellis and I had both misinterpreted Jeeves' feudal impeccability for more. I'd have to try to simply be grateful to know and be served by such a man, and leave it at that.

And I'd just learn to ignore the internal fortissimo, provoked by the thought of his quirking mouth, or his warm, gentle hands.

Oh, Jeeves, what a mess.

Of course, by superhuman means, he had sniffed me out of my solitary stag-night hideout, ferried me home and poured me into bed. I was so touched by his singular care, that I begun to feel a welling of hope, once more.

Yes! Perhaps I _could_ tell him! Awaking in the night, I felt quite compelled to do so. Even if he didn't feel similarly, Jeeves would never leave me! And if he _did_ feel the same, well... The thought warmed me enough to judge the reward well-worth it.

I'm well aware that, when in my cups, my disposition tends to swing at a veritable pendulum's pace. Following such an afternoon of discovery and shock, it was only normal that I might need a little of the reinforcements to buck myself up. I hadn't quite counted on the rapid shifts undertaken by the wooster state of mind.

Said S.O.M. was currently back in the saddle and galloping full force towards the thing I most desired. My goal, naturally, was to drunkenly impose myself on my valet, in the hopes that he might be charmed by my inebriated advances.

His room was dark when I'd entered; Calm and bookish and warm. It had seemed so natural to join him in bed. He looked so peaceful, all brainy and handsome, with his face relaxed in sleep. I'd crawled aboard, making a bee-line for the long-admired spot of pale skin at his jawline. He smelled of clean cotton, and it felt eerily natural, somehow, to be dizzy and breathless and straddling my valet's hips. It was all very cozy, and I was sure, from the soft sighs from between Jeeves' gorgeous lips, that things were all well with him. He'd just begun a deliciously maddening caress up the sensitive length of my thighs, when I felt him go completely still below me.

Being ejected from Jeeves' bed had been a rough blow. I'd taken it personally, at first, and had scrambled into the hallway in mortified agony. I'd been certain that I'd wake to find Jeeves cleared out, after my untoward actions. How could I have possibly thought that Jeeves would return the love of such a blighter as Wooster B? After all, he must have known about it, having read it in my face before I'd caught on, as usual. But he'd politely never bothered to squash the little ember of my adoration.

In my time, I've participated in the odd bout of inebriated foolishness, but this was by FAR the worst, despite having subsequently awoken far outside a cell in the chokey. Flopping moodily back onto my own bed, I made a resolution to never imbibe the dreaded hooch again! Well, except maybe a small scotch from time to time. And a sugared rum or two, on holiday.

Suddenly I'd gasped, sitting up in astonishment--a notion driving from my head all thoughts of teetotaling reformation.

I had been a first-class, prize idiot to have tried anything on, while full to the brim with the strong stuff! Of _course_ such an noble gent as Jeeves would feel honor-bound to rebuff my advances while I'd been stumbling about, all sozzled!

I thought back to the low, rumbling utterance of the familiar honorific,... How his voice had caught, when I touched my mouth to his throat... and resolved to try my luck again. I'd shrug off the failure of my former attempt, and start anew!

With that, I'd slept heavier than I'd done in years.

And though it pained me to watch Jeeves' gliding about at his morning duties with a distinct chuff, my plans for the day gave me cause to whistle cheerily over my breakfast.

With a nod to myself, while I sipped at my tea (no easy feat, mind you), I promised myself that by tonight, I'd once again throw my heart on Jeeves' mercy, and hope that, this time, the thing stuck.

Author's Note: Bertie has a PLAN. Heaven help us all.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

To be honest, I was torn between relief and disturbance over Mr. Wooster's apparent memory loss as to his actions in the night previous. I was grateful to avoid the awkwardness he might have felt, but the absence of discussion over yesterday's events was grating on my nerves. It felt disheartening to have felt the teetering imminence of change, only to continue on as we always had.

Mr. Wooster had his breakfast, chatted genially to me about the weather, and took his bath, seemingly unaware of my inner turmoil. In the afternoon, he read on the couch, while I chose to remain nearby, mending a lamp that Mr. Wooster had broken earlier in the week, attempting to perch his hat on it. Examining the wiring troubles had temporarily taken my mind off of my own brooding, and had stopped me from shooting Mr. Wooster inquisitive looks, wondering what on earth lay in store.

I admit, I was a little out of my element. While I have been told that my assistance is invaluable in sorting out the tangled matters of those around me, I find that by keeping myself apart from these issues, I am able to puzzle them out quite easily. It's once I become embroiled in these tempestuous follies that my perspective becomes invariably muddled.

In truth, much of me wished that Mr. Wooster would immediately recall his meeting with Dr. Ellis, and the subsequent revelations, declare them honestly, as is his nature, and allow events to proceed to their conclusions. It is unlike me to encourage a lack of subtlety, but having waited nearly the entirety of my position in Mr. Wooster's employ, my patience had been worn thin. I was verging on a prompting inquiry about his appointment, but I held my tongue on a tight reign.

Consumed as I was in the tricky business of replacing a wire in the lamp fixture, I hadn't noticed Mr. Wooster shifting nearer to me on the couch, until I felt the sudden warmth of him close to my right arm.

"Jeeves," he said, his eyes fixed on his book, "Did you know that there are hundreds of thousands of nerve endings in a human ear?"

The question was so unlike Mr. Wooster's usual remarks, that I raised an eyebrow. He had not retreated, and I was quite still, trapped as I was by the arm of the couch.

"I had read something that had stated a similarly large sum, Sir. May I inquire as to how you might have come across such a piece of anatomical information?"

He turned the volume in his hand to display the cover, which read "The Hound Detective."

"Well, this chap," he explained, pointing to the tall dark gentleman on the cover, who cupped a hand around his ear, while simultaneously placing a finger over the mouth of his lady assistant, in an effort, I imagine, to hear an approaching criminal. "He's the hound detective. Called such, I'm told, because of his truly remarkable hearing. It's how he catches all the baddies! Now, this part," he paused, scanning the page, "in this part here, he's explaining to Miss Dexter about how sensitive the ears are. She's just as awed by his talents as I am of your remarkable brain, Jeeves!"

"Very kind of you to say so, Sir. I must point out that certainly a 'hound detective' would more aptly utilize his olfactory talents to track down a criminal, though."

"Well, that was the last one that was published in this serial. This one's about ears. Let me read you this bit. Fascinating science, this ear business!"

But here I froze and all contemplation of his casual conversation evaporated from my mind, when I felt his soft fingertip trace the contour of my outer ear, running lightly down to finger the lobe. I'm eternally grateful that he was still examining the pages of his book, absently reading under his breath to find his place, and that he didn't see my face.

For while I would imagine that "The Hound Detective" was privileged to sensitive ears, they would surely pale in comparison to the millions upon millions of nerve endings in my own, each of which was suddenly brought to life with electrifying immediacy, at the touch of his hand.

Were I forced to speak, or even to think coherently at that moment, I would have surely been unable. As was the case, in a outrageous breach of self control, I let my eyes slip shut as my pupils rolled upwards, and I let out a shaky breath that bordered on a soft groan.

Mr. Wooster continued on, seemingly unaware of my plight, reading under his breath while his fingertips absently danced back up over the sensitive rim of my ear. "Ah ha! Here it is: '_Miss Gooding, were you aware that there are hundreds of thousands of nerve endings in the human ear? It's true. Why, even as you blush, I can hear your heart beating faster. Allow me to demonstrate_,' and here's where he rubs her ear, see Jeeves? It's quite a clever scene. I'll beg off on reading you the rest, though, to spare you the description of their torrid embrace."

He then smoothed my hair affectionately behind my ear in a fondly disarming manner, and went back to being thoroughly engrossed in his book.

I took a moment-- only a moment-- to be utterly still and flushed, holding my breath and regarding my employer with wary eyes, before I shook off my reaction, and went back to my task with slightly shaking hands.

After five minutes of frantic contemplation, I had repaired the lamp, but my thoughts were no less convoluted. If I thought it was at all in Mr. Wooster's nature, I would have suspected that he purposely sought to arouse my ardor, while keeping himself secure against the possibility of rejection or blame. But that was impossible. I stood to replace the lamp on the side table, certain, now, that Mr. Wooster's titillating maneuvers were innocent and subconscious expressions of his denied feelings.

The alternative-- that Mr. Wooster was undertaking a calculated seduction-- was a thought that was too distracting to contemplate. I went into the kitchen to begin the evening meal.

Author's Note: I totally want to read that "Hound Detective" series. I fancy that they catch a lot of "cat-burglars" and the author thinks she's very clever.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Delicious, Jeeves." I cleared my throat, hoping that my voice wasn't as low and hoarse as it sounded to me. From the way he slowly turned from the sink where he'd deposited the washing up, I suspected he may have noticed something.

I couldn't help it if the man insisted on standing before me at the sink, flouting his broad back and narrow hips.

"Thank you, Sir. I'm pleased you enjoyed it," he remarked, turning back to the dishes.

I'd chosen to dine with Jeeves in the kitchen, as had become my habit when I wasn't entertaining company for supper. He'd prepared a topping little meal, but I'm afraid my thoughts had been otherwise engaged. They had skipped and jumped between a nervous contemplation of my ingenious plan to ease into contemplations of a chummy carnality with my valet. I had to strictly remind myself to remain inscrutable (the crux of the aforementioned plan). Dashed difficult to do when you're secretly engaged in a subversive seduction of the most scrutinizing man in the continent.

I'd caught a few strange sort of looks from the man, when I'd attempted to eat a stalk of asparagus in a sensual manner. His face seemed to inquire whether I was having some sort of stroke.

Remaining blasé was a practiced art, it would seem, and I was sorely lacking in practice.

"Sir?"

With a blush, I tore my eyes upwards to his face.

"If you have no further need of my services, this evening, I will set out your nightclothes and retire."

"So early, Jeeves?"

"I'm finding myself unusually fatigued from the exertions of the day. I hope you will excuse me, Sir."

"Of course, Jeeves, of course. _Bon nuit,_ and all that sort of thing."

He nodded, bid me a good evening, and glided from the kitchen.

It was time to begin the next movement in my clumsily-composed ballet.

Author's Note: This is a shortie. And no-one can eat asparagus sexily. Not even Bertie.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I'd discovered that an internal mantra had been my only available tool to retain my sanity during the course of this trying day. It had come to me, first, when Mr. Wooster had wandered into the kitchen while I was preparing dinner, only to untuck his crisp, linen shirt.

This presented me not only with his shirt-tails, which he proffered to be examined, but a breathtaking view of the soft planes of his lower stomach. His smooth skin, lightly furred and tapering into the finespun of his trouser-waist, gave rise to the hills of his hipbones, and I was momentarily deaf to his voice.

"...Do you think you can fix this, Jeeves? Or shall we take it in to the tailory?"

My eyes snapped to the torn buttonhole, the bottom one on the shirt, and before thinking, I reached a hand out to finger the material. To touch his shirt was only natural, of course, to determine the extent of the necessary repairs. The fabric was warm from where it had pressed against his skin all day, and soft. The backs of my knuckles accidentally grazed the soft skin of his stomach, and it vaguely occurred to me to wonder why he had chosen not to wear the undershirt I had set out for him this morning. His stomach contracted a little at my touch, then he seemed to lean a little closer, so the back of my hand made further, electric contact with the area just below his navel.

In my mind, a stern and horrified voice suddenly admonished, 'I will not allow my body to react. I will simply renounce my hormonal response.'

"I should be capable of making the repairs, Sir. I don't believe it to necessitate a trip to the tailor shop." I withdrew my hand, turned to the stove, and forcibly focused my attention on seasoning the soup. The mantra had worked, after a fashion. But it would certainly not be the last time that evening that my mind recited it.

An age and a half passed after dinner, while I waited for the earliest appropriate time to excuse myself. Safe behind the heavy oak of my door, I breathed a sigh of exhaustion. After years of falling into the practice of cloaking my reactions to my employer, I would have thought I would have become more adept. Clearly I was having an off day, after the debacle on the night previous. With a shudder of mixed pleasure and unease, I retired with an improving book.

"_This term [sodomy has its origin in the story (narrated in Genesis, ch. xix) of Lot's visitors whom the men of Sodom desired to have intercourse with, and of the subsequent destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. This story furnishes a sufficiently good ground for the use of the term, though the Jews do not regard sodomy as the sin of Sodom, but rather inhospitality and hardness of heart to the poor (J. Preuss, Biblisch-Talmudische Medizin, pp. 579-81), and Christian theologians also, both Catholic and Protestant (see, e.g., Jahrbuch für sexuelle Zwischenstufen, vol. iv, p. 199, and Hirschfeld, Homosexualität, p. 742), have argued that it was not homosexuality, but their other offenses, which provoked the destruction of the Cities of the Plain."_

I paused in my reading, and rested the gentle heft of Ellis's well-worn volume against my chest, staring at the window opposite my bed. I sat propped against the iron of my headboard, attempting to banish my disquiet from the day with a reassuring treatise of mental health.

The lamp was low, and the room quiet and pleasant. At first, I didn't notice the door ease open, lost in thought as I was. Mr. Wooster was barefoot, and his tread was light against the carpet.

When I turned to see him, my fingers gripping the cover of the book against my chest tightened in surprise. He stood just inside the door, smiling slightly, with his face freshly scrubbed and slightly reddened. He wore his pajamas, and a dressing robe, and I noted that the low amber of the lamp played over his hair with enticing golden gleams.

"Did you have need of me, Sir?" I asked, and heard in my voice a quality of realization-- a strange sort of change that was occurring, shifting and taking form on this night, which must have explained for my own reluctance to stand at my usual defenses to address him.

"Doing some light reading, Jeeves?" he said, brushing the pads of his feet against the floor as he walked slowly nearer.

"A little, to quiet the mind," I said, in the stillness of the room. All was motionless except for his steady glide towards my bed.

"What is it you have there?" he asked, eyeing my book.

"Nothing of consequence, Sir."

"Is it? Really? Let me see."

"I promise you, it's nothing of any interest."

"Then let me see it," he was beside me, now, his thighs against the edge of the bed, and his grinning eyes fixed on the volume in my hands. He reached out for it, and before I could think, I pulled it away, out of reach. A childish instinct.

"Jeeves! Let me see!" he laughed, and lunged for the book. His knee was on the bed, now, as he reached further over the bed to grab at the volume. I held it as far as my reach would allow, unsure why I did not desire for him to glimpse the book, and distracted at his nearness as he lunged for it, over my body.

Laughing, he gave up after a moment, and his hand, which had reached to grab at my book, fell limply to my chest. I was aware of his knee still dimpling the coverlet, and then his thumb began to make soothing swipes over the dip in my collarbone, bared by the neck of my pajamas. His expression had become serious, his eyes heavy-lidded and fixed on my own.

'_I will not allow my body to react. I will simply renounce my hormonal response._' But the internal mantra hadn't prevented my long, slow blink, and my hand holding the book to fall to the bed. I heard the book thud against the floor as it fell between the wall and bed.

"Jeeves," he murmured, and suddenly his knee rolled and he was on the bed from hip to ankle. His hand slid from my chest to my stomach, and my breath fell a little more rapidly from my parted lips. His eyes had fallen to my mouth.

His lips curved in a sweet smile, and he brushed them against my cheek, before they traveled featherlight along my jawline. The heat of him radiated against me like lapping waves, as his other leg curled to join it's partner on the edge of my bed.

I held still as a hunted deer.

' Iwillnotallowmybodytoreact. Iwillsimplyrenouncemyhormonalresponse.' But oh, it was useless.

I could feel him nuzzle my neck below my ear, and then the vibrating purr of his voice.

"What were you reading about, Jeeves?" and his voice was low and heady, and who was that man in my pajamas who was breathing as if he had run a race?

Below the covers I was undeniably aching and needy. On the bedspread, my hands had started contracting in slow clenches in an effort not to touch him. I had been reduced to a creature of pure want, and in moments, I was going to break, and Mr. Wooster was going to be shocked at having unleashed all the years of desire I'd retained for him.

Was he prepared? Had I induced his realization prematurely, with my impatiently nudging him to face Dr. Ellis's diagnosis? Was I even capable of continuing to follow this preventative line of reasoning when his tongue was darting out to moisten his lips, and grazing the lobe of my ear? Not in the slightest.

In a moment, my hands were gripping his upper-arms, and pulling him fully onto the bed. My lips fell open against the curve of his neck, where I breathed raggedly.

"Sir... Sir... You're going to have to declare your intentions, this evening. I... I'm going to need to hear it," I rasped against the warm skin below his ear. The tremble in my voice was tempered by his own gasp, and the clutch of his fingers into the fabric of my pajama top.

"Jeeeves..." he murmured against my temple. "I want to stay here, with you. If it's not too much trouble..."

I set my teeth for a moment. "You wish to sleep beside me, Sir?" I asked, with a deliberate note of incredulity. My breath came fast, in a tinny whine.

"Wasn't exactly the extent of my plans, Jeeves," he said, and I could feel his breath on my ear again. The man may have been considered to be mildly dim in certain situations, but I was beginning to suspect that in one _particular_ area, he possessed a natural adeptness that stemmed from his well-developed sense of empathy. To no-one had I ever before revealed the extent of my aural sensitivity, as it were, but he'd manage to cotton on to that bit of information with the speed and skill of a prodigy.

"I'd had a mind to... seducing you, Jeeves, if you wouldn't mind too terribly," he whispered, and something about the earnest way he said it, with his body suddenly very still, convinced me of the solemnity of his offer.

It was enough, to break me from my stranglehold with my own reserve.

I pulled him atop me fully, and met his grinning mouth with my own lips. As loquacious as I often find my interactions with Mr. Wooster, for this I would allow the words to fail me, beautifully. It was perfect, and it wasn't enough, somehow, and I parted my mouth against his to lunge forward again and again and taste his mouth, first his soft pink bottom lip, slightly moist, then the point in his upper lip. His teeth were like wet pearls and I was drowning in the satin of his soft mouth and the slight scrape of the growth since this morning's shave. I was drugged in the brush of our noses and the feel of his hair at the nape of his neck, clutched in my fingers to draw his face closer to my own; In the sounds he made, soft undulating gasps that broke to the surface when our mouths parted briefly to come together again in alternating fast then slow collisions and duels.

His hips were rocking against my own. The scent of his clean nightclothes mingled with the earthy smell of his skin, and rose up between us to choke me. I could feel the hard length of him alongside my own arousal, pressing close. My fingers smoothed down from his neck to the lapels of the dressing robe that was coming off one shoulder. Mindful, blearily, of the fine material and careful lapel crease, I eased the other side off his shoulder, and felt a dizzying jolt of arousal as his arms became pinned to his sides. I hadn't expected my own reaction to his confinement, and I tried to clear my mind to examine it, when I felt the full weight of him atop me, and realized that he was wriggling frantically out of his robe. He managed to pull his arms free, and then his hands were cupping my jaw again, to angle my face to his lips.

Kissing him seems to free my hands to do as they would without instruction from my mind. My fingers traveled town his lean back, to where they encountered the shucked material of his robe, still hanging from the tie at his waist that had begun to slip. I fisted the material in my hand and tossed it from the bed, with a moment's thought for the well-being of the material, before my hands slipped, shaking, over the rise of his gluteal muscle. There, lightheaded, I gripped him while I softly bit his lower lip, and ground his hips hard against my own, causing us both to moan.

It was proceeding at a drugged pace, and yet the speed of things seems beyond my control. Mr. Wooster was slipping the ivory buttons through the holes of my pajama top, and rubbing the tip of his lightly freckled nose against the skin as it became bared. Breath slipped in and out of my lips at an alarming rate, and I swallowed hard to moisten my mouth and attempt some control. He had reached my ribcage in seemingly no amount of time, and then my shirt had parted and he was urging the sleeves over my shoulders. I sat up with a speed that nearly dislodged him, and shrugged out of the material, my eyes on the hasty progression of his fingers down the length of his own buttons.

And there we were, two men kneeling shirtless and facing one another on a ironframed bed in a small apartment, panting slightly and moving slowly to press our bodies together. His hands traveled maddeningly up the curve of my spine, and the warmth of his naked arms around my sides was enough to make my mouth curve a little against his temple. His movements seemed reverent, hesitant and yearning at once. It seemed to mirror the vibrating nervousness in my breast, and I brought my hands up to curve around the bones of his hips. The feeling was not unlike the night previous-- the muscles no less scintillating, the soft downy skin above the waistband of his pajama bottoms no less electric.

His own hands traveled back down the length of my spine, where his thumbs hooked into my own waistband, and began to pull downwards.

"Jeeves," he panted against my clavicle, "May I?"

"By all means," I returned, "If I may reciprocate?" My voice was uncharacteristically breathy, but I found myself unable to muster sufficient concern over the breach in decorum.

In moments, we were shifting our weights from one knee at a time to remove the last remaining garments, and then we stilled, facing each other.

Nude, my employer's long limbs and lightly muscled frame is all freckled, satin skin and soft furred junctions. I'll admit to dressing him well to set off the beauty of his frame, but I'm satisfied to keep to myself how startlingly beautiful he was, kneeling and flushed and unadorned. He'd leaned back a bit on the balls of his feet, to regard me in turn. The movement tightened the muscles of his stomach, and set off my salivary glands. His right hand made a slow progression across the space between us, to bump against the meat of my thigh, where the backs of his fingers smoothed up against the grain of hairs there, rising to comb through the denser hairs at the base of my hips. I trembled on my knees, grateful I wasn't standing.

I was taking short bursts of breath through my nose, and clenching my teeth from the pleasure of his touch. His eyes were fixed below, intent, which allowed me to study the planes of his face in deep concentration. His mouth had fallen open a bit, and his tongue came out to moisten his lip, and then, with a flick of his wide blue eyes to my own, his hand closed around the width of my arousal, and I let go a choking cry. With a slow, measured movement, he leaned his hips forward, until my erection was snug between his perfect thighs, and his stomach met my own, with his own pulsing hardness trapped between us. His hands fell to my shoulders, and the warmth of the full press of our bodies was intoxicating. My arms came around him to press him yet closer, and I heard his gasp of pleasure as the pressure increased. In response, he tightened his knees, pressing my hardness between his thighs, and the feeling was so exquisite, that I thrust against him, penetrating his thighs and clamping his erection between our stomachs again. His fingers dug into my shoulders, and his forehead came to rest against the side of my neck. I could feel his shaky breathing against my chest with every delicious thrust. Above my shaft was the softness of his scrotum, and the sweat of his thighs made my way slippery between the taught femoral muscles. At the apex of each thrust, the very tip of me brushed against the underside of his buttocks, and at each downstroke, the skin of my stomach grazed over his own arousal.

His hips thrust minutely in double time against my stomach, and I began to increase the rhythm of my own movements. My head fell back in pleasure, and my hands gripped his sides as we began to move frantically against one another. His fingers dug into my shoulders, and his voice was keening in time with his breathing, a desperate sound.

Without thought, I moved so I was gripping the back of his neck, and brought his forehead to my own. We continued to thrust against each other, my shaft stabbing between his thighs as he thrust up against my stomach, and I willed him to open his eyes. As if I'd spoken, he did so, and we were locked in a gaze, close enough that his eyes were all I could see. I began to thrust erratically, whimpers escaping the back of my throat, but the close look held. His forehead pushed against my own, and I watched his eyes widen, as if in panic, and he thrust against me hard, before a warm wetness pulsed up my stomach, bathing me from navel to sternum. His voice choked on my name again and again. It was too much, to stare into his eyes as he reached his apex, and thrusting frantically, I, too, achieved my finish, releasing between his thighs.

With tired, erratic movements, we slowed against each other. He was trembling, curled against my chest. My knees ached, and my hands shook violently, as I smoothed them over his back in a comforting manner.

I silently urged him to turn and lie on his side against me in the bed. Once there, we continued to spasm slightly in dizzy aftershocks, enjoying the warmth and comfort of post-coital intimacy. I could feel his smile appear and re-appear against my neck, and I knew him to be well-pleased with himself. I had to concede that he had every right to be.

I would not allow the feudal guilt I felt creeping along the edges of my bliss. I had been thoroughly seduced, and I intended to relinquish any concerns until morning, at least.

For now, I had far better things to concern myself with. Primarily, there was a patch of skin along my employer's neck that was in need of a thorough examination. After that had been explored, I had a letter of gratitude to pen, to a particular psychological researcher, but that could wait for morning.

The End

Author's Note: All done now! What they just did is called "intercrural sex," or "femoral sex." Look it up! It's a classic greek sex act involving fucking one partner between their thighs. Very hot.

Thank you to everyone reading! I hope you enjoyed it.

Special thanks to Si, who helps me tone down my Jeeves, and suggests sex acts.

Ta!


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